


love like war

by ineedmygirl



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Trojan War Setting (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Epic Love, Homeric, M/M, The Iliad References, The Odyssey References, basically all of ur lit classes but gayer and with anime boys, this one is a real Greek Tragedy, unless u read the original stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26464312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineedmygirl/pseuds/ineedmygirl
Summary: “We received word today. From the King’s brother.”Tsukishima’s fingers tighten around his.“They’re coming for me?”“No,” Kuroo says. “They’re coming for all of Troy.”or, four epic love stories. one war.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 87
Kudos: 326





	1. the bringers of war

**Author's Note:**

> yes its another greek mythology au nobody look at me
> 
> each chapter is going to be the events of the trojan war told from the perspectives of four different love stories, so u can expect a new ship and a new kind of story every time!
> 
> **IMPORTANT NOTE!** this fic does not have a major character death warning bc nobody dies IN the fic, but if u know homer's original stories and the fates of these characters,,,u know :/ i left most of the endings sort of ambiguous, but please be aware that these are GREEK TRAGEDIES and there r very few happy endings :(
> 
> and on that pleasant note, pls enjoy!!  
> 
> 
> [fic master thread](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie/status/1305658890005237760?s=20)  
>  [my twitter](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie)

**Kuroo & Tsukishima - The Bringers of War**  
  


  
  
  
He can’t stop staring.

He could lose his standing in the King’s good graces for this - he could lose his head for this.

But Gods above and Gods below have mercy on his weak and mortal heart, because the King of Sparta has the most beautiful husband Kuroo has ever laid eyes on.

Tsukishima Kei. Even his name rings elegant and true in Kuroo’s ears, on a never-ending loop like a lullaby he can’t get out of his head. He must have been kissed by Aphrodite at birth to have a face like that. High, sharp cheekbones and a soft jawline, like he was both carved from marble and woven from silk. Hair the color of the morning sunlight as it spills into your bedroom at the dawn of every new day, with curls falling across his forehead, tucked behind his ears, tempting Kuroo to reach out and feel its softness between his fingers.

His mouth, oh, how Kuroo could wax poetic endlessly about Tsukishima’s mouth. The curve of his Cupid’s bow and the supple plump to his bottom lip. Not to mention the words that spill out of them, Kuroo drinking up each and every one like a man dying of thirst. He doesn’t speak much, not in front of the King. His only role then is to sit pretty and still at his husband’s side, lips pursed together like a Pandora’s Box that Kuroo desperately wants to pry open.

And when Tsukishima and Kuroo are alone, he does. He asks, and Tsukishima speaks, and it’s like Olympus on Earth.

The King is a fool, Kuroo thinks, for many reasons. But none more so than the fact that he would prefer to keep Tsukishima silent, when one of the best things about him is when he’s anything but. When he teases Kuroo with words dipped in honey, and when he matches Kuroo’s wit with a tongue sharp as a whip. When he whispers all of his most secret dreams and desires into Kuroo’s ear, and when he laughs like gentle waves lapping at the shore.

And when Kuroo touches him, how Tsukishima _sings._

The King may take Kuroo’s head for this, but Tsukishima Kei already has his entire heart.

Tonight, Kuroo finds it harder than most nights to resist the pull of Tsukishima’s beauty. He’s barely even doing a thing, just listlessly pushing his food around on his plate, smiling tightly whenever the King makes a joke, staring vacantly up at the ceiling when he’s pulled forcefully into his husband’s lap, fat, greedy fingers wrapped around his narrow waist.

It could be the shimmering golden lace artfully draped around Tsukishima’s lithe body, or the black kohl smudged into the corners of his eyes, but Kuroo thinks its the sadness. Tsukishima’s sadness is a tragic, beautiful thing, like a broken dove, and Kuroo can’t for the life of him look away.

Kuroo has an idea. It’s far from the first time he’s had such an idea, but he and his men are scheduled to sail home to Troy first thing the next morning, and Kuroo knows that it’s tonight. It has to be tonight.

Kuroo will never see such sadness in Tsukishima’s eyes for the rest of his days, starting tonight. He swears it.

He excuses himself from the table, doesn’t even bother making up a story for where he’s going because he knows his men have all seen the way he looks at the King of Sparta’s husband. They’re good, loyal men, they’d never breathe a word against their Prince. Kuroo appreciates them for that. It almost makes him feel bad for what he’s about to do.

As powerful as a weighted touch, Kuroo feels Tsukishima’s eyes on him as he slips out of the banquet hall. He heads down the dark, empty hallway until he reaches a staircase, walking up about halfway and pressing himself against the wall, waiting.

“Tetsurou? Tetsu - oh!”

Just the sound of Tsukishima’s hushed whispers of his name are enough to overcome Kuroo completely, so that when the blonde turns the corner, he’s already catching him around the waist and spinning him to press Tsukishima to the wall behind him.

“Oh, Kei,” Kuroo breathes, ducking his head into the crook of Tsukishima’s neck and inhaling the sweet, musky floral scent of his skin, burying his face in his curls until all of his sense are completely overwhelmed with nothing but his love.

“You startled me,” Tsukishima murmurs petulantly, with his fingers carding through Kuroo’s wild black hair.

“I’m sorry,” Kuroo murmurs back, placing a kiss to Tsukishima’s clavicle, to the side of his throat, to the sensitive skin just below his ear. Tsukishima exhales in relief, head tipping to the side and entire body going pliant beneath Kuroo’s lips. “Where?” he asks, hands moving to Tsukishima’s waist.

“Here.” Tsukishima guides his hands a little lower, to the exact spot that the King had touched him. Kuroo hums in understanding and smoothes his fingers gently over the creamy white skin visible through the sheer fabric of Tsukishima’s robes, erasing the memory of the other’s hands from Tsukishima’s mind.

“Better now, love?”

Tsukishima nods, nose skimming Kuroo’s cheek, their faces so close it’s hard to tell which breath belongs to each of them.

“Infinitely, yes.”

One day, Kuroo will kill the King of Sparta.

“Tell me something,” Kuroo requests.

“Such as?”

“Anything. Everything. I don’t care, so long as it’s you.”

In the solitude granted to them only by the cover of darkness, Tsukishima cradles Kuroo’s head to his chest and tells him everything. Every little thing he can think of, from the names of his favorite constellations, to the hideous dress he saw one of the court member’s wives wearing, to the reason that flowers bloom in the springtime. With Tsukishima’s skin beneath his fingers and his heartbeat in Kuroo’s ear, he hangs on his each and every word.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Kuroo says when Tsukishima finally runs out of words. A hand cups his cheek and guides his face up, meeting Tsukishima’s gaze. His breath catches painfully in his chest at the sorrow shining so brilliantly in his amber eyes.

“I know, Tetsurou. Please, don’t say anything more. I don’t think I can bear to hear it.”

“My men and I are going home, back to Troy. Tomorrow.”

Tsukishima squeezes his eyes shut, fair lashes clinging to the tops of his cheeks with tears.

“No more,” he begs. “Just let me pretend for a little while longer.”

“Kei,” Kuroo cups his face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the escaped tears that track down his cheeks, inky black with kohl. “Look at me, precious. I swear it won’t hurt. You know that I’d never hurt you.”

Slowly, Tsukishima blinks his eyes open again, big and wide and shining like the full moon. Kuroo is helpless to do anything but kiss him for all he’s worth in this world. Tsukishima begins to cry harder, but he kisses back just as desperately, hands fisting into the front of Kuroo’s shirt and turning their lips salty and bittersweet.

“I’ll die,” Tsukishima sobs against Kuroo’s lips. “I know that you can’t stay, but when you leave me, I’ll just die. I’d rather be nothing at all than be without you.”

Everything inside of Kuroo cracks and crumbles into a thousand tiny pieces. He tightens his hold on Tsukishima, crushing him impossibly closer against him, wanting nothing more than to keep this beautiful boy right here in his arms where he can keep him safe forever, for the rest of his life.

“Never,” Kuroo starts, voice broken and raw. _“Never_ say anything like that again, do you hear me? Gods, Kei, if you - If you ever - I can’t even bear the thought.”

“I’m sorry,” Tsukishima clutches at his shoulders and buries his face in his chest, tears soaking into the fabric of Kuroo’s shirt. “I’m sorry, Tetsurou, I’m just - I’m so sad, I don’t know what to do.”

“I do. Come with me.”

Time seems to stretch on for a thousand eternities as Tsukishima processes his words, sobs slowing to a few hiccuped breaths, pulling away to face Kuroo with tear-tracks down his cheeks and a bewildered look in his eyes.

“I don’t… I don’t understand? Are you making fun of me?”

“No!” Kuroo quickly assures him, gathering both of Tsukishima’s hands in his and kissing his knuckles with a worshipping man’s lips. “No, I’m being serious. I want to take you away from here, Kei. I want to make you smile and make you happy in the sunlight instead of hiding in dark corridors. I want to show you my home, and share my life with you. I want to make love to you every night and every morning until the Gods themselves are so scandalized they have to look away. I want to treat you with all of the kindness that you deserve, because Gods do you deserve so much better than this. And when our time on this Earth does come to an end, I want it to be with you by my side. Come back with me, to Troy. Please.”

Tsukishima’s eyes flood with fear and Kuroo will - he _will_ \- kill the man who put it there one day. His lips part and he shakes his head in minute, jerky motions, snatching his hands back from Kuroo and clasping them together tightly over his chest.

“I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, he’ll _kill_ you. I - I can’t.”

“Oh, darling.” Kuroo smiles. “Haven’t you realized it yet? If I were to leave here tomorrow without you, I might as well just cut out my own heart and sacrifice it to the sea. It doesn’t matter if he kills me. I’ll die without you anyways.”

A wet sounding laugh bubbles its way out of Tsukishima’s chest. “That was my line first.”

“I was just borrowing it, darling.”

“You drive me mad, Tetsurou.”

“I love you, Kei.”

Tsukishima gasps, hands flying up to cover his mouth, and it’s possibly the most adorable thing Kuroo has ever witnessed in his life. He stares at Kuroo, eyes wide in shock, then carefully pries his fingers away from his face.

“Because… Because I’m beautiful?” He asks in a trembling, unsure voice.

Kuroo shakes his head and he wants to laugh and he wants to cry and he wants to spend millennia upon millennia telling Tsukishima each and every little thing that he does love about him.

His beauty would be the last thing on the list.

“No. Because of everything else.”

Tsukishima tangles his fingers into the long strands of Kuroo’s hair and kisses his answer into Kuroo’s mouth a thousand times over.

_Yes._  
  
  


~*~

Kuroo doesn’t know what it’s like to have the weight of a kingdom on your shoulders. From the moment he was born, it had already been decided that he would be no such King of Troy.

Perhaps lesser man with greater egos born in his position would be filled with hatred about that fact. Perhaps even Kuroo himself would have one day grown with that same ugly, dark hunger for power inside of him, were in not for the fact that his older brother Bokuto would no doubt be the greatest King this world has ever known. Zeus himself would be put to shame once Bokuto took the throne, this Kuroo knows for a fact.

It’s this weight that Kuroo sees clearly on his brother’s face when he reveals what he’s done.

The silent war within him; Troy’s future King against Kuroo’s older brother.

“He can’t stay,” Bokuto says. He refuses to look at Tsukishima’s face. Kuroo knows it would break his resolve completely.

“Well he’s certainly not going back there!” Kuroo would sooner die than hand Tsukishima back over to the King of Sparta. Bokuto frowns, eyebrows drawing together, and Kuroo steps in front of Tsukishima, closer to his brother with his voice nearly a whisper. “He was a prisoner there, Bo. A prisoner in his own body and in his own home. I won’t take him back there. What kind of man would I be if I did?”

“A man who puts his country before his reckless heart?” Bokuto’s gaze is steely, but still obviously conflicted. “What you two have done here is selfish and impulsive. Do you have any idea what this will do to our relations with Sparta when the King finds out?”

Kuroo puts a hand to his chest in solemn oath. “I’ll bear any consequences of my actions myself. The King of Sparta can have my head, but he will not take my heart from me.”

Bokuto’s gaze flickers over Kuroo’s shoulder to Tsukishima, and his expression softens a touch, before growing impossibly sad.

“He can’t stay.”

A hand clutches at the back of Kuroo’s jacket, and as Bokuto starts to walk away towards the captain, most likely to direct him to turn the ship around, Kuroo acts quickly. He jumps forward and snatches Bokuto’s sword right from its sheath on his hip. His brother spins on him, eyes wide and startled, hands going up instinctively to protect himself.

They only widen further in confusion when instead of attacking, Kuroo thrusts the hilt of the sword into Bokuto’s own hands, directing the sharp edge to the vulnerable skin of his throat. He hears Tsukishima’s sharp gasp behind him, but does not break his brother’s gaze.

“If you turn this ship around, you’re as good as taking your blade to my throat.”

Bokuto frowns and shakes his head. “I won’t let the King hurt you. If you apologize for what you’ve done -”

“It’s not the King that will kill me, brother,” Kuroo says. He watches the realization slowly pan across his older brother’s face, like Apollo pulling the sun.

Finally, Bokuto’s kingly façade cracks, the boy Kuroo grew up running through the palace halls with breaking through. He looks back at Tsukishima once more, then again to Kuroo.

A smile that could warm even Hades’ heart takes its rightful place on Bokuto’s face.

“You’re in love! Really, truly, Aphrodite-blessed love!”

Kuroo reaches out for Tsukishima’s hand, pulling him forward to stand alongside him and face the future King. _Their_ future King. Together.

A blush as delicate and lovely as the petals of a rose paints Tsukishima’s fine cheeks. A blush that Kuroo happens to know takes over his entire body when he cries in bed.

“I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused,” Tsukishima speaks to Bokuto, and Kuroo can see the way his brother immediately falls under the spell of his sweet voice. He realizes it’s the first time Bokuto has ever actually heard him talk. Bokuto has only ever been around Tsukishima with the King of Sparta present as well, his husband always cutting the blonde’s tongue out of his mouth before he could even open it.

Bokuto reaches out a strong firm hand, and after a moment of surprise, Tsukishima slides his own smaller hand into it.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Bokuto closes his hand around around Tsukishima’s firmly. “We’ll take care of you now.”

Kuroo’s eyebrows jump in surprise.

“We will? What happened to taking him back?”

“You’re my brother and you love him,” Bokuto says simply. “Of course whatever happens next, we’ll face it together. All of us.”

“Quite the change of heart.”

Bokuto laughs, finally releasing Tsukishima’s hand. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure that you really loved him. I thought he was just a pretty face, and you hadn’t thought through your actions properly. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time you played the part of Troy’s rebellious prince.”

“I do.” Kuroo wraps an arm around Tsukishima’s waist, and the blonde folds against him. “I love him more fiercely than anything in this world.”

“And you?” Bokuto raises an inquisitive eyebrow at Tsukishima.

Kuroo knows the answer already. Just the night before Tsukishima had breathed his truth into Kuroo’s mouth and pressed it across every inch of his skin and shouted it to the Heavens above in the moments where the two of them were neither flesh nor bone nor blood, only spirit and soul. Still, he waits with baited breath, just to hear those miraculous words pass his lover’s lips once more.

“Yes,” Tsukishima answers before the question has fully left Bokuto’s mouth. “I love him. As inevitable as life and death, I love Tetsurou.”

“As inevitable as life and death,” Bokuto repeats. He looks thoughtfully out across the sea, and the words sound more like prophecy than anything else. “Let’s hope you’re only half right.”  
  
  


~*~

“Brother?”

Bokuto wakes Kuroo with a gentle knock on his door, poking his head in with a warm smile and eyes glittering like the surface of the sea they had been staring at for weeks now. Kuroo sits up and stretches, feeling his sheets pool in his lap. He’s still undressed and slightly sticky from his and Tsukishima’s earlier activities, right before he had drifted off to a peaceful afternoon nap.

Tsukishima’s not in his bed - a fact that Kuroo finds to be a crime against nature - but the spot next to him is still warm, so he mustn't have left long ago.

“Yes, what is it?”

Bokuto’s smile grows so wide, it nearly splits his face in two.

“Home,” he says simply. Kuroo rubs his eyes for a moment longer, letting the meaning of his word sink in to his still sleep-addled mind.

He drops his hand and springs to his feet, almost forgetting to pull the sheets along with him.

“Home?” He repeats, frantically wrapping the sheets around himself into a makeshift toga, too excited to bother with actual clothes. “Where is - Is Kei -?”

“Already up there,” Bokuto says with a laugh. “Come on, you’re the last to see. You sleep like the dead, you know?”

Kuroo hooks his elbow around Bokuto’s neck, and his brother retaliates by throwing his arms around his waist, and they playfully wrestle like little boys running through the streets of Troy together again, with no more responsibility on their shoulders than to get home in time for dinner.

Bokuto wins, of course. He’s always been the stronger of the two - Kuroo’s greatest adversary, and his greatest protector.

When they make it to the top deck, Bokuto finally releases him, nudging him towards the bow of the deck and Kuroo’s heart stops in his chest.

It’s almost too wonderful of a sight. He feels like he should avert his gaze, or drop to his knees and pray. How could a simple, flawed and mortal man like himself be deserving to behold such a thing?

There’s Troy. His home, rising high above the horizon. As grand as he remembers it. Maybe even grander.

And at the bow of the ship, there’s Tsukishima. His back to Kuroo as he looks out across the sea, wrapped in something sheer and white, his pale skin catching the rays of the sun and making him glow like some angelic thing. The breeze tousles his blonde hair, grown longer from their journey, and Kuroo thinks he’s never loved anything more.

His heart. His home.

He hadn’t realized how long he had just been standing there, staring, until he noticed the way Tsukishima’s shoulders started to shake, his entire frame trembling.

Like he’s crying.

Kuroo, without thinking, rushes to his side and turns Tsukishima to face him, hands already reaching up to wipe the tears from his eyes before he sees.

There are no tears on Tsukishima’s face.

He isn’t crying at all. He’s _laughing._

He’s laughing with all the elation and carefree air of the nymphs on Olympus, drunk off Dionysus’s finest wine, and it makes his face light up and it makes his soul light up and it makes Kuroo want to cling to him and weep because he has never seen Tsukishima look like this before.

Kuroo has never seen Tsukishima look so _free._

“Tetsurou,” he giggles like a child, airy and bright. “That’s it, that’s your home. I can finally see it.”

“Yes,” Kuroo says, gathering Tsukishima into his arms and feeling his laughter pressed against his heart. “That’s _our_ home, Kei.”

“I can’t believe they let you be the Prince of such a beautiful place,” Tsukishima teases, head tucked under Kuroo’s chin and arms wrapped around his waist as they both looked out towards the horizon together.

“Oh? You don’t think Troy suits me?” Kuroo grins, tightening his hold. Instead of countering, Tsukishima just exhales happily and melts into Kuroo’s arms.

“I think it suits you just fine.”

As the waves lap at the stern of the ship and land grows closer and closer to them, Kuroo can feel their grasp on their paradise slipping. It was easy to forget, at sea and so far removed from the rest of the world, what fate may await them when their feet touch ground once more. But for just a few moments longer, Kuroo wants to keep his arms wrapped around Tsukishima and pretend that he’s always been his to keep. Because it’s not just Troy on the horizon. It’s reality.

“I used to pray to the Gods every night that in the morning I would wake up a hideous, ugly beast.”

Tsukishima’s voice is hardly loud enough to not be carried away completely by the breeze, but Kuroo hums to let him know he’s listening. He’s hanging on his every word.

“I thought that if I did, if I wasn’t beautiful anymore, then my husband wouldn’t want me any longer. That he would just kill me, dispose of me the way Kings do with things that no longer entertain them, and it would all be over. It would finally be over.”

“Kei,” Kuroo whispers, heart torn and voice broken. He has to put one hand over Tsukishima’s heart, just to feel it beating against his skin to keep him from breaking down entirely.

Surprisingly, Tsukishima appears to have the opposite reaction to his words. Kuroo catches the hint of a smile dancing at the corners of his lips, eyes bright and looking forward, trained immovably on the horizon.

“I just want you to know that no matter what may happen to me next, if they should come for me and capture me and torture me in all the worst kinds of ways, it will have been worth it. This moment, this feeling, _you._ It will have all been worth it to me, Tetsurou.”

And Kuroo does cry, now. Holds Tsukishima like the blonde boy is the only thing tethering him to this world any longer, hangs his head, and cries into the smooth, unblemished skin of his neck. The things he would do to Kronos just to get a chance at the God of Time letting him turn it back, to erase all of Tsukishima’s pain. So that they could have more time together. All the time in the world, though it still would never be enough for Kuroo.

“I will never let them take you from me,” Kuroo swears. “No one will ever hurt you again as long as I live. Even in death, I’ll strike up a deal with Hades so that I can always protect you. I’ll never see you anything but happy and free for the rest of your days, I promise you that.”

Tsukishima cups his cheek and lifts his face to kiss him softly.

“Finding you was worth any pain I’ve endured and any pain that still may come, Kuroo Tetsurou.”  
  
  


~*~

“There you are.” Tsukishima smiles dazzlingly at him from Kuroo’s bed, draped in the finest silk sheets in all of Troy, his hair still mussed from the night before.

Kuroo loves him here, in his home, where he belongs. It almost feels like a dream, waking up to Tsukishima beside him every morning, falling asleep next to him each night. Troy suits Tsukishima, perhaps better than it ever suited Kuroo. He was more radiant here than Kuroo had ever seen him.

He wishes it were a dream they could never wake from.

“The servants brought up a fruit platter and I’ve already eaten almost all of the strawberries.” Tsukishima continues. His smile falls, suddenly sitting up straight. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Kuroo hates that he stole that smile off Tsukishima’s face. Wishes he could tell him that nothing is wrong, and make him laugh, and kiss him until his lips are pink and swollen, and lie to his beautiful, beautiful face.

But Tsukishima is far too smart for lies. Not many people know this, but Kuroo does.

He sits down on the bed next to Tsukishima, one hand taking his, the other still clutching the letter.

“We received word today. From the King’s brother.”

Tsukishima’s fingers tighten around his. 

“They’re coming for me?”

“No,” Kuroo says. “They’re coming for all of Troy.”

Panic and fear start to claw their way onto Tsukishima’s lovely face and Kuroo can’t bear to see it. He guides Tsukishima’s lips to his, kissing him and coaxing him through the gasping breaths, the clutching hands at his chest frantic enough to break the skin.

Kuroo himself is mostly unaffected by the news, concerned if only for Tsukishima’s reaction.

Because unlike Tsukishima, Kuroo has always known that this was an option. That men like the King of Sparta and his brother would take any invitation to start a war.

And he tells Tsukishima in each and every kiss until his breath has slowed again and he’s kissing back like his life depends on it,

_It was worth it. It was all worth it._

  
  
  



	2. the victims of war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’re in _love,_ Keiji! Don’t you remember how that feels?”
> 
> Akaashi swallows hard, raising a hand to cup Bokuto’s face and resting their foreheads together.
> 
> “Every moment that I’m with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy <3 (and,,,,im sorry)
> 
> [fic master thread](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie/status/1305658890005237760?s=20)  
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie)

**Bokuto & Akaashi - The Victims of War**  
  
  
  
  
  
The Face that Launched a Thousand Ships. That’s what they’re calling Tsukishima Kei.

It’s a pretty nickname, like everything else about the blonde boy’s nature. Poetic, if not a bit dramatic.

Akaashi would find it much prettier if those thousand ships weren’t currently heading towards the shore of _his_ home. All for some silly little boy that Kuroo couldn’t help but put his hands all over. A toy he couldn’t help but keep for himself, even if it was not his to take.

Now, all of Troy would pay the price of Kuroo Tetsurou’s love.

All of Troy could burn to ashes, as far as Akaashi was concerned. But they dragged his husband into this war, and Akaashi may not be much of a fighter, but for Bokuto, he would.

“Why are you smiling?” He can’t help but snap, noticing the bright grin on Bokuto’s face as he watches Kuroo and Tsukishima below them, walking along hand-in-hand. Akaashi considers spitting down on both of their heads, but Bokuto just laughs and throws an arm around Akaashi’s shoulders, holding him close.

Like magic, Akaashi feels the anger inside of him gave way, like a grain of sand being towed along by the tide.

“It’s a nice moment, Keiji. Why don’t you just enjoy it with me?”

“Nice? Thousands of Greeks are going to land on our shore any day now, and you think this moment is _nice?”_

Bokuto hums thoughtfully, and the breeze tousles his hair like silvery strands of spun precious metal. He is truly the greatest man Akaashi has ever known. Brave and true, kind and generous, strong and fair. He would make a good King of Troy one day. If there was still a Troy to rule one day.

Curse Kuroo Tetsurou. Curse Tsukishima Kei.

“Well,” Bokuto starts. “I’m here, and you’re here. Kuroo looks happier than I’ve ever seen him, and Tsukishima is like a songbird finally being set free. It’s not raining. I had a good breakfast. You look even more beautiful today than you did the day before. I’m still married to you. So yes, I’d say this is a very nice moment.”

If hearts could be made out of anything besides flesh and blood, Akaashi thinks Bokuto’s would be made out of the purest of golds.

Below, Kuroo leads Tsukishima to hop up onto the low wall around the fountain, pulling him along with their fingers locked together. Akaashi has a feeling it would take something much stronger than an entire Greek army to pry them apart.

“I love you, Koutarou, but sometimes I don’t think you have a heart made for this world.”

Bokuto blinks owlishly at him, lips tilting in a lopsided grin.

“What do you mean by that?”

Akaashi turns away, lips pursed together. Watches as Tsukishima loses his footing and falls into the fountain with a loud _splash,_ pulling Kuroo in along with him. They both resurface with their wet hair plastered to their faces, and their laughter rings out in the courtyard like a symphony of angels. Akaashi grits his teeth and looks back to Bokuto when Kuroo drags Tsukishima close and presses their blissfully oblivious lips together.

“You’re too good. Too bright. A world like this one doesn’t deserve to have you in. _Kuroo_ doesn’t deserve -”

“No,” Bokuto cuts him off sharply and Akaashi shuts his mouth with a painful clack of his teeth. He hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud. He got too heated, and let his truth slip through the cracks.

He knew better. Bokuto loves Kuroo, almost as much as he loves Akaashi. Maybe even more. Maybe that’s why Akaashi hates his husband’s brother.

Bokuto takes in a deep breath through his nose, and Akaashi watches as the broad lines of his body visibly relax. He catches Akaashi’s chin in a gentle grip and places a chaste kiss on his lips, pulling back and looking hard into Akaashi’s eyes.

“Maybe, my love, the world simply isn’t as dark as you believe it to be.”

“I have eyes, Koutarou. I can see the world exactly as it is.”

“Really?” Bokuto tips his head to the side, guiding Akaashi’s face to look down at Kuroo and Tsukishima again. They’ve crawled their way out of the fountain now, and are drying off in the sun’s rays, laying out side by side with their fingers still seamlessly joined. Even if Akaashi squints hard, he can’t tell where one’s hand ends and the other begins. “What do you see now?”

“Fools.”

Bokuto laughs, and the sun seems to shine a little brighter. Akaashi always thought that he wouldn’t be surprised if one day his husband revealed to him that he was actually a God in disguise. Perhaps Apollo, then.

“They’re in _love,_ Keiji! Don’t you remember how that feels?”

Akaashi swallows hard, raising a hand to cup Bokuto’s face and resting their foreheads together.

“Every moment that I’m with you.”

From the very instant that their eyes locked, and every infinity between every second since then, Akaashi has been so wholly and in love with Bokuto Koutarou that sometimes he fears it will consume him entirely. Until he forgets any other words but his husband’s name, until he can’t move his feet from the ground without Bokuto by his side, until he bleeds Bokuto’s blood for him and shoulders all of his pain.

Bokuto didn’t choose Akaashi, nor did Akaashi choose Bokuto. It was a marriage arranged by their parents, long before either one of them had even been born. But if asked to live his life all over again, Akaashi would go back for Bokuto, Bokuto, Bokuto every time.

To Akaashi, there was no other man in the world. Not a single soul that could compare to the effervescent kindheartedness that Bokuto seemed to radiate from his very core.

He was simple and uncomplicated, where Akaashi was messy and overly analytical. He was patience and understanding, where Akaashi was blunt logic and cold facts. He was optimistic, where Akaashi was damned.

Bokuto grins more brilliantly than the sun itself - too good to be even Apollo, then - and kisses Akaashi once on each cheek, then again on the lips.

“We can’t be too greedy, you know. We have to let other people be in love, too.”

Akaashi disagrees. He has enough love for Bokuto stored up inside of him for the whole word, ten times over.

“At least I fell in love with my own spouse.”

“I’d have fallen in love with you, even if you weren’t mine,” Bokuto says in that vulnerably honest way that he says everything. Akaashi can’t even disagree this time.

“How can you not even be the slightest bit angry? The two of them frolicking around down there while you prepare our borders for invasion? An invasion that _they_ brought to our doorstep?”

For a long while, Bokuto doesn’t answer. For so long that Akaashi thinks he may have forgotten he was even asked a question. He just props his chin in his hand and leans over the balcony, where Kuroo and Tsukishima have dozed off while basking in the sunlight, the traitor from Sparta now curled up against Kuroo’s chest like a tall, lanky cat. Even in his sleep, Kuroo has a smile on his face.

“I don’t know. I just look at the two of them, and I can’t be angry.”

“You seem to have grown quite fond of Tsukishima Kei, then.” Akaashi doesn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but he can’t help the hint of dark, bitter jealousy in his words. He knows, truthfully, that Bokuto would never look at another man besides him, but Tsukishima famously had the prettiest face in all the worlds, and. Well. Akaashi was only mortal.

Bokuto looks shocked and a little hurt at his words, and Akaashi wishes that he could take them back.

“I love Kuroo, and Kuroo loves Tsukishima,” Bokuto says. He puts his hands on Akaashi’s shoulders and asks him very seriously, “And without love, what else is there worth fighting for in this world?”

Akaashi looks into Bokuto’s eyes, warm and inviting, like the embers of a hearth, and can’t come up with a single answer.  
  
  


~*~

No one has ever accused Akaashi of being gifted with the Sight before, but he has no better explanation for what draws him out of his bed in the middle of the night.

It’s not Bokuto, sleeping soundly as a marble statue by his side, that rouses him. It’s not an invasion by the Greeks under the cover of darkness. It isn’t his own restlessness, as he had been sleeping in perfect peace only moments before.

But something - _something_ \- tugs at his body like he’s a puppet on strings, pulls his limbs out of his bed, wraps himself in a dressing robe, and walks his feet down the stairs.

For a long while there’s nothing, save the sound of his bare feet against the cold stone beneath them, and he thinks it best if he puts his overactive imagination to rest and simply returns to bed.

But then.

So quiet that if Akaashi hadn’t been waiting, he would have passed it off as a the breeze. Footsteps. Quick and light, almost as if they weren’t touching the ground at all. A shadow passing in the darkness below.

Akaashi freezes, panic seizing his entire body, thinking for a moment that perhaps it really _is_ a Greek invasion. A spy. An assassin sent for his family.

Only, he doesn’t think that assassins wear glittering golden robes.

Even with the hood pulled up over his face, shrouding it in darkness, Tsukishima Kei is easily recognizable.

Again, like he has no autonomy over his body at all, Akaashi moves. He must be just as stealthy as Tsukishima himself, because the blonde sucks in a sharp gasp, jarringly loud in the stillness of the night, when Akaashi grabs hold of his sleeve and jerks him to a stop, spinning him around to face him.

He can only imagine the amount of rage that must be visible on his face from the way that Tsukishima immediately shrinks back, eyes already spilling tears down his porcelain face. Gods damn him, Tsukishima is even breathtaking when he cries. It only serves to increase Akaashi’s dislike of him tenfold.

Traitor to Sparta. Traitor to Troy.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Akaashi hisses, venomous as a viper.

“Down to the beaches,” Tsukishima whispers in a trembling voice. “I’m going to turn myself over to - to my husband.” He forces out the word as if it physically pains him, and against his will, Akaashi feels a pang of sympathy. Bokuto is the only husband he’s ever known, and he’s fortunate that the word has never filled him with anything but fondness and love. “If I do, maybe they’ll leave, and I can end this war before anyone gets hurt. I never meant for this to happen. I thought - I hoped he would only come for me.”

The beaches. Tsukishima would be lucky if he even made it that far alive, with how many Greeks have been camped on their shores these past few weeks. All of those soldiers, all of those depraved men, and a boy as fair and lovely as Tsukishima… It was like throwing a piece of meat to a pack of wolves. Akaashi shuddered to think what would become of him in the frenzy.

He wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone. Not even Tsukishima Kei.

“When I first met you, I thought you a fool. I now see that I was entirely correct.”

Tsukishima’s face hardens into an expression Akaashi has never seen on the blonde before, eyes narrowing and mouth set into a firm line. It’s not quite as pretty as he usually is. If he’s being honest, it makes Akaashi like him just a little bit better.

“Well, don’t worry. You won’t have to deal with me or my foolishness much longer.”

He turns to go and Akaashi stops him again, this time with a hand wrapped around his wrist, and Akaashi isn’t particularly strong himself, but Tsukishima feels impossibly fragile in his grasp. Like a songbird, Bokuto had called him. He certainly sees it now. So terribly easy to break.

Inexplicably, much of Akaashi’s anger drains away.

Tsukishima is no monster. No villain. No cruel seductress who had convinced Kuroo to whisk him away on a whim, plotting the downfall of Troy all along.

He was just just a delicate, broken little fool in love.

“This war…” Akaashi says slowly, as the world rewrites itself in his mind, and Tsukishima glares defiantly at him through tear-filled eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

Tsukishima blinks, arm going limp in Akaashi’s hold.

“What?”

“The King and his brother have had designs on Troy for years now. You simply gave them the perfect excuse to invade without looking to the rest of the world as the aggressors. If you go back now, it won’t make a difference. You’ll only end up sacrificing yourself for nothing. Like a fool.”

He watches as the wheels spin in Tsukishima’s mind, tears slowing to a stop.

“Why would you tell me all of this? You don’t even like me. You’ve made that much perfectly clear since the moment I arrived.”

“Because… Because if you go, it’ll kill Kuroo. And Bokuto loves Kuroo, and I love Bokuto. So you see, Tsukishima, you’re in this now. To the bitter end, you’re with us.”

The truth of his words hit Akaashi like a blow to the chest. Tsukishima’s eyes widen, more tears spilling down his face, and to his surprise, Akaashi finds his own face growing damp. He releases Tsukishima’s wrist and turns his hand, catching Tsukishima’s fingers in his. It’s not a tender act, almost violent in the way that Akaashi squeezes so tightly he thinks the younger boy might bruise.

It’s an act of solidarity.

Because without love, what else is there worth fighting for in this world?

Akaashi doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to find out.

“Go back upstairs,” he orders Tsukishima. “Join Kuroo in his bed, and when morning comes, never tell him what happened here tonight. Do you understand?”

Tsukishima squeezes Akaashi’s fingers back, surprisingly strong.

“What if this was our only chance at peace?”

Akaashi smiles sadly at the beautiful boy, reaching up to wipe away a few errant tears.

“Some love is so great, it leaves no room for peace.”  
  
  


~*~

There are ten thousand people living within Troy’s walls. Ten thousand lives at stake with the Greeks camped outside their doors, like predators waiting for a sign of weakness to strike. Ten thousand hearts that beat, that have blood coursing through their veins, that breathe air into their lungs.

Ten thousand of them, and Akaashi only cares about one - this one right here, beating strong and proud beneath his fingertips.

Does that make him cruel? Does it make him evil? Akaashi has wondered this many times in his life. It’s hard not to, when in love with someone like Bokuto Koutarou, who would offer a stranger his own limb if they looked like they needed it.

He pretends to ponder it for many hours, but he truthfully knows the answer all along:

The rest of the world could be burning to ashes, and Akaashi wouldn’t leave Bokuto to save it.

When he told Tsukishima that some love was so great it left no room for peace, he was talking about his own.

“I’ve heard the Greeks have Miya Atsumu and his Myrmidons with them.”

Bokuto’s eyelids flutter open and Akaashi has to squint in the force of the light they shine. He knows Bokuto had been drifting off to sleep for quite some time now, with one arm behind his head and the other holding Akaashi to his bare chest, a sated smile on his face from their love making earlier. And still, he woke the instant he heard Akaashi’s voice.

Bokuto hums interestedly, as if he didn’t already know. “Is that so?”

“He’s the best fighter of all the Greeks, and you the best of the Trojans. They’ll send him for you.”

“I expect they will.”

“Atsumu has never lost a fight in his life. They say he can kill a man with a single gaze.”

Bokuto huffs a laugh into the top of Akaashi’s head. “That seems a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t.” Akaashi pulls away to look Bokuto in the face. “You were born and bred and raised for this, but Atsumu? He’s a wild animal in comparison.”

“He was born the son of royalty, same as me.”

“Yes, but they didn’t raise Miya Atsumu to be a King.” Akaashi suppresses a shiver that races down his spine, laying down to hug Bokuto tightly again. “They raised him to be a killer.”

No matter what age they stuck a sword in Bokuto’s hand and started teaching him how to fight, Akaashi feared - no, Akaashi _knew_ deep down in his soul what would happen if his husband and Atsumu were to cross paths on the battlefield.

There was no denying the simple fact that wild horses always ran faster than those raised in captivity.

“Kei says -”

“Oh?” Bokuto cuts him off, and even though Akaashi can’t see the curl of his lips or the twinkle in his eyes, he can tell his husband is endlessly amused. “Kei says, huh? You seem to have grown quite fond of him,” he teases, using Akaashi’s own words.

Akaashi sighs. “Go on and say it.”

“Say what?” Bokuto asks innocently. “I just think it’s nice that the two of you have been getting along so well lately.”

He is, of course, referring to the fact that whenever Kuroo and Bokuto are busy doing whatever it is that important men do behind closed doors during war, Tsukishima has taken to sticking by Akaashi’s side like a willowy shadow. Not that Akaashi doesn’t encourage it, always offering to take Tsukishima on walks around all of the blonde’s favorite places in Troy, telling him stories about the impossibly younger Kuroo that Akaashi met many years ago when he was sent here to wed Bokuto.

Tsukishima was always an attentive listener, and Akaashi found himself enjoying his quiet presence. He even stopped every so often to play with some of the kids in town, offering little girls some of the bangles off his wrist and kissing all of their cheeks like a blessing. He would make a good ruler, Akaashi thinks. If things go wrong during this war, perhaps Tsukishima could - 

No. He can’t afford to think like that.

“You were right,” Akaashi finally says.

Bokuto laughs and kisses the top of his head. “You don’t have to sound so pained to say it.”

“I was right, too, though. They are fools.”

“Naturally,” Bokuto agrees easily. Akaashi could say that the sky was green and he thinks Bokuto would still agree with him.

“But we can’t be selfish with love. Tsukishima and Kuroo have as much a right to love each other as you and I do, and if I were in their position… I think I would have risked destroying the whole world to keep you. I probably would have done it myself, just to be sure no one would ever try to take you from me. I can’t blame them for a single thing, because I would do terrible, awful things in the name of loving you, Bokuto Koutarou.”

Akaashi holds his breath, waiting for his husband’s reaction. For the disgust and fear. The realization that he’s married to a monster.

But instead, Bokuto just laughs, deep and warm like summer lightning, head tossed back to expose the corded lines of his throat. So vulnerable and so strong all at once.

Akaashi has been noticing things like that lately. Dark, crawling thoughts that invade his mind, all the little places on Bokuto’s body where armor wouldn’t protect him. Where a fatal blow could be dealt. Akaashi categorizes all of these places, holds a list of Bokuto’s weakness in the back of his mind. These reminders that despite it all, Bokuto is only human.

“You don’t think I already know that? My dear, your eyes betray your soul like no man I’ve ever met before.”

“My eyes?” Akaashi repeats, still slightly dazed.

Bokuto nods and reaches up a hand to cup Akaashi’s face, thumb brushing the delicate skin at the corner of his eyes.

“I wish the whole world could love like you, Keiji. A love so powerful, it’s violent.”  
  
  


~*~

Miya Atsumu comes for Bokuto, just as Akaashi predicted. Covered in blood that isn’t his own, pacing in front of the city walls like a caged lion, snarling and snapping his jaws and roaring in agony.

_Face me, Bokuto Koutarou! Come down here and face me, you coward! You villain!_

“Don’t go,” Akaashi clutches at Bokuto’s arm, but he already knows the words are hanging dead in the air. “Please, please don’t go,” he begs.

Bokuto frees himself from Akaashi’s grasp, holding his hand to his lips and kissing it gently. There’s a deep sadness in his eyes, a heavy responsibility weighing down on him.

Akaashi realizes now that Bokuto is no God. He’s been a Titan all along. 

Atlas, carrying the burden of the world upon his shoulders.

“I have to, my love. You know I do. He’ll never forgive me for what I did.”

And Bokuto doesn’t have that Greek boy’s blood still staining his hands the way Atsumu does, but Akaashi can see the crimson just as brightly. He knows that Atsumu can, too. And that’s what makes him certain of it.

“He’ll kill you.”

Bokuto takes Akaashi’s face tenderly in his hands and presses a single, lingering kiss to the center of his forehead.

“Don’t let this fill your heart with hatred, Keiji. Don’t let your world go truly dark.”

An impossible request. There can be no light in a world without Bokuto.

Akaashi turns to Tsukishima and cries while the blonde whispers apologies until his voice is as dry and cracked as Akaashi’s heart feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and remember that this is homer's fault not mine OK SORRY BYE
> 
> (pls feel free to yell @ me in the comments and on [twitter](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie))


	3. the legends of war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atsumu laughs, kissing Sakusa in the middle of his forehead and running soothing hands through his dark curls. 
> 
> “Honestly, Omi, Bokuto Koutarou would have to do something truly terrible to make me want to kill him more than I want to live myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> patroclus and achilles r so precious to me,,,this chapter was simultaneously my favorite and least favorite to write :-) enjoy <3
> 
> [fic master thread](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie/status/1305658890005237760?s=20)   
>  [my twitter](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie)

**Sakusa & Atsumu - The Legends of War**  
  
  
  
  
  
“What did the Trojans ever do to me?”

Atsumu, as conceited as ever, swings his broadsword over his shoulder, the bronze metal of it glinting golden in the sunlight, much the same way as his skin does. He looks impervious.

He _is_ impervious.

Sakusa only wishes that he himself were impervious to Miya Atsumu. The strongest fighter in all the lands. The best of the Greeks.

Sakusa’s best friend. The boy he loves more dearly than anything in this world. And maybe it’s the selfishness in him talking, but he can’t help but agree. He doesn’t want the Trojans to take Atsumu away from him. He doesn’t want to lose him to a prideful man’s war.

“You don’t want to fight?” Iwaizumi Hajime’s voice is colored with obvious surprise. Sakusa thinks it must be important, this war, if they sent someone like Iwaizumi to ask Atsumu to join them. A famously brilliant tactician, practically a God himself when it comes to war. The chosen champion of Athena. “But you were born for this?”

“No,” Sakusa bites out the word before his mind can think better of it. “He wasn’t.”

He tries to keep his tone as neutral as possible, to show a man like Iwaizumi the respect he deserves, but he can hear the growling undertone.

To all the rest of the world, Sakusa knows what Atsumu is. A boy who before his birth was already determined by the Fates to be the strongest warrior this world has ever known. Before he could even speak his first word, greedy, power-hungry men from lands near and far were already speaking for him. Claiming him as their own, like he was a weapon for them to wield however they saw fit. As if he wasn’t a man at all, with his own mind and his own heart.

Atsumu didn’t ask to be born this way.

Sakusa didn’t ask to fall in love with him.

And yet, here they both were.

While Iwaizumi quickly apologizes for the “unintended meaning behind his words”, Atsumu shoots Sakusa a warm, amused grin. To anyone else, it would look like a baring of fangs, but to Sakusa, and Sakusa alone, it was full of tenderness and love.

No matter how many times Sakusa has to do it, he’ll be the one to remind Atsumu that he’s so much more than a weapon of mass destruction.

“I only meant,” Iwaizumi continues, “I’ve heard you love a good fight. I would think this would be an opportunity right up your alley.”

Atsumu shrugs and shoves his sword into a training dummy, using the hilt sticking out as a rest for his elbow. He grins at Iwaizumi - this time, clearly a baring of fangs.

“I’m not saying I don’t wanna fight. I’m asking you why I should care about the King of Sparta losing his pretty little wife to the Prince of Troy.”

Things like this are always a game to Atsumu. Life and death and war. Sakusa often wonders what it must be like, living like a young God.

“His husband, actually,” Iwaizumi corrects. Atsumu barks a surprised laugh.

“Well now that’s a little more interesting, isn’t it?”

“It’s going to be one of the greatest wars in history. The men who fight in this war will be remembered as legends for all of time,” Iwaizumi says, and Sakusa can see the way Atsumu’s eyes light up in excitement.

“Keep talking.”

Iwaizumi huffs a laugh at Atsumu’s arrogance, but like every man who has come before him, he lets it slide, even though Atsumu is many years his junior.

“The Gods have declared this war the greatest for centuries to come. A war that will turn men into heroes written in the stars, whose stories will be told long after they’re gone from this world. I’ll be honest with you, many will lose their lives, but if you come with me and help the Greeks take Troy, no one will ever forget the name Miya Atsumu.”

_Many will lose their lives._ The words play on repeat, like a cursed hymn of Apollo’s muses, endlessly torturing Sakusa’s mind. Even worse, is the way Atsumu’s face gives away just how appealing the entire thing is to him. Life and death and war.

“Or,” Iwaizumi lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “You can stay here. Die an old man, forgotten, but with many years behind you. You’ll have a good life,” his eyes stray over to Sakusa and his lips lift in a smile that’s too knowing, “I’m sure. But it’ll be temporary. Fleeting. Come with me, and you’ll be eternal.”

Atsumu’s world-eating grin flickers. He turns to look at Sakusa.

And oh, it hurts to look at him sometimes. It causes Sakusa a physical ache with just how much he loves this boy, how much he has loved him since they were children and how much he’ll love him until the end of time. 

When he looks at him he sees not only the Atsumu that stands before him today, but also the round-cheeked little boy that used to tuck sprigs of lavender behind Sakusa’s ear, and the moody pre-teen who struck Sakusa across the face in rage during one of their fights, only to immediately burst into tears after he realized what he had done, swearing to never lay a violent hand on Sakusa again. The young man who came of age with a sword in his hand by day, and Sakusa’s heart in his hand by night, laying side by side in Atsumu’s bed, warm skin pressed together, praying none of the servants came in and caught them.

He sees Atsumu as he has been, as he is now, and how he will be.

Miya Atsumu wasn’t born to be a weapon, but he wasn’t born to be forgotten either. He was born for eternity.

Sakusa has always known that while Atsumu may be his destiny, he is not Atsumu’s. Atsumu’s destiny is something so much greater than him.

“What do you think?” The sunlight backs Atsumu so that his golden hair shines like a lion’s mane. 

“Me?” Sakusa arches an eyebrow. Atsumu gives him a lopsided grin, looking much more like that boy Sakusa knows than the warrior Iwaizumi is trying to recruit.

“Yes, you. What do you think? Tell me what I should do, and I’ll do it.”

It sounds so simple when Atsumu puts it like that, like he’s merely letting Sakusa decide what he’s going to eat for dinner and not deciding the fate of his life.

It’s the amount of trust that Atsumu is putting in him that makes Sakusa’s breath catch, his heart swell to the point of being painful. He loves Miya Atsumu, probably more than any mere mortal has a right to, and he would do anything - _anything_ \- to protect him, to spend the rest of their lives together, to have as much time with him as the Fates would allow.

But when he looks at Atsumu, the way his fingers flex on the hilt of his sword almost absentmindedly, the constellations shining in his eyes, begging him to be a part of them, he knows.

Atsumu isn’t meant to burn steady and fade away in a puff of smoke. He’s meant to explode, bright and hot and beautiful, going out in a burst of flames and taking a chunk of the world with him.

Sakusa knows what he has to say, but it’s like a wall has closed up in his throat, his heart keeping him from doing what he has to. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“Omi,” Atsumu says in a voice so gentle and private, Iwaizumi turns away. He takes a step closer to Sakusa, wrapping a hand around his wrist, surely feeling the way Sakusa’s pulse is pounding in his veins. “I mean it. Whatever you want, that’s what we’ll do. Just say the word.”

There’s a little freckle, so faint it can only be seen in certain lights, just at the corner of Atsumu’s mouth. Sakusa is pretty sure he’s the only one who knows about it, from pressing kisses to it from dark until morning, nearly every night since they were boys too young to even know what it meant.

He takes Atsumu’s cheek in his hand, letting his thumb press over that freckle now, and it helps him find his voice.

“You’d make a much better star than an old man, anyways.”

Atsumu tilts his head into Sakusa’s touch, tame as a kitten for him and only him.

“I’d be a very cute and charming old man.”

“You would yell at children for fun.”

Atsumu barks out a laugh. “And you would be right there next to me.”

Sakusa smiles sadly, the meaning of their words breaking his heart only a little.

“Yes. I would.”

Taking a step closer, Atsumu presses Sakusa’s hand to his chest, just over his heartbeat, and lowers his voice.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

_Not at all._

“No doubt in my mind.”  
  
  


~*~

War is slower than Sakusa expected it to be.

For all that it’s caused by hot tempers and rash decision-making, it can drag on for weeks at a time with nothing eventful happening at all.

Not that Sakusa is complaining. All of that down time simply means he and Atsumu have plenty of opportunities to sneak off and pretend there is no war at all. 

If you travel further down the beach, past the sandy shores and into the more wild underbrush of Troy’s coast, there’s a secret place overgrown with tall trees and lush grass. Sakusa and Atsumu found it entirely by accident, wandering a little too far from camp one day, but they’ve returned many times since then. It’s their own private world where they don’t need to be anything but themselves - just two boys, wholly and unconditionally in love, who know each other’s souls better than they know their own.

They carved their own trails through the woods with their bare feet, running around playing games with made up rules and chasing each other like they were little kids growing up in Phthia together again.

Sakusa used to hate his father for disowning him and sending him away to a foreign land to live under the roof of a foreign King, but if it wasn’t for him, Sakusa never would have met Atsumu. Never would have come to think of Phthia as his own home, never would have grown to care for something more than his own heart beating in his chest.

“Omi! Watch this!”

One would assume that after spending his entire life being put on a pedestal, Atsumu wouldn’t be such a show-off. But of course, with Sakusa, he always still tried.

“I’m not catching you if you fall,” Sakusa calls up blandly, watching as Atsumu climbs with grace and ease up to the highest branches of one of the tallest trees. He’s not worried about Atsumu falling, not really. Knowing him, he would just bounce harmlessly off the ground, laughing all the while.

Atsumu’s shirtless torso glows in the sunlight, warm and golden and solid, like he was carved out of precious metal. His muscles shift like a cat of prey, lean and powerful, pulling his body from one branch to the next. Sakusa can admit that there’s no sight he enjoys more in the world than Atsumu, strong and free and _happy,_ turning back to smile at Sakusa over his shoulder, hitting him right in the chest with all the force of one of Eros’ arrows.

“I’m not going to fall! Why don’t you have some faith in me, huh?”

_I have more faith in you than I do any God on Olympus._

“I’m just warning you.”

Atsumu laughs, reaching for another branch. “I’ve never fallen before, have I?”

Sakusa swallows hard, a sudden weight on his chest that makes it hard to breathe.

“First time for everything,” he says too quietly for Atsumu to hear. Just because he’s never fallen before doesn’t mean he never will.

“What was that?” Atsumu asks, squinting down at him from far above.

He’s still looking at Sakusa when he reaches for the next branch.

He’s still looking at Sakusa when his hand misses and he loses his balance.

It looks a bit how Sakusa imagines Icarus looked falling out of the sky: Golden wings on his back, but without the ability to fly.

Sakusa’s body moves without his permission, placing himself immovably below Atsumu, shutting his eyes tightly, and waiting for the impact.

He had no intentions of actually catching Atsumu - the fall was too far and he wasn’t nearly strong enough for that. He only meant to cushion his fall.

Atsumu is more precious to him than himself.

They collide, and it isn’t as painful as Sakusa expected it to be. He’s knocked to the ground with the force of it, some of the air leaving his lungs as he gasps from the impact of his back hitting the ground, but he barely feels any weight on top of him. When he manages to pry his eyes open again, he sees only Atsumu’s face above him, eyes wide and chest heaving with his panting breaths.

He had managed to catch himself, at the very last second, to avoid hurting Sakusa.

“You’re out of your mind,” Atsumu whispers, almost in awe. “I could have crushed you to death.”

“You were falling.”

Atsumu laughs, a great and beautiful thing, and lets himself fall on top of Sakusa, burying his face in his neck, probably feeling the erratic flutter of his pulse.

“So much for not catching me.” His words and his smile are pressed against Sakusa’s skin and he can’t help but smile a bit himself.

“So much for not falling.”

They lay still for a while longer, Atsumu’s nose pressed beneath his ear and Sakusa’s hands trailing the expanse of his bare back, only the sounds of their breath catching and the waves lapping at the shore filling the silence. Eventually, Atsumu sits up, pulling Sakusa with him, and leans against the tree he just fell from. Sakusa easily fits into the space between his spread legs, sitting with his back to Atsumu’s chest, and Atsumu’s arms wrapped securely around his waist.

Through the trees, Sakusa can see the sea kissing the horizon, and it reminds him of a distinctly unpleasant visit they had gotten only a few days before.

“We have to talk about what your mother said.”

Atsumu hums distractedly, kissing his way down Sakusa’s neck. “Mhm, sure.”

“This is serious,” Sakusa protests weakly, tilting his head to the side to allow Atsumu access to more skin, before shaking his head firmly and coming back to his senses. “The Gods foretold that if you kill Bokuto Koutarou, you’ll die.”

Atsumu’s mother herself, Thetis, was a Goddess of the sea, making Atsumu not quite God, but not quite man, either. She came to them from the water to deliver the message and beg Atsumu to let her take him far away from this Trojan war, to hide him and protect him from his own fate.

And Atsumu said ‘no’.

Even now, he seems completely unbothered by his destiny.

“Isn’t the answer obvious then? I simply won’t kill Bokuto Koutarou.”

Sakusa turns in Atsumu’s arms, dislodging his lips from his neck and fixes him with a serious look.

“What if he doesn’t give you a choice? What if he comes for you first and the only way you can defend yourself is to kill him?”

“Then I’ll run away!” Atsumu laughs, kissing Sakusa in the middle of his forehead and running soothing hands through his dark curls. “Honestly, Omi, Bokuto Koutarou would have to do something truly terrible to make me want to kill him more than I want to live myself.”

Sakusa still frowns, but he’s helplessly calmed by Atsumu’s confident words and the fingers rubbing circles into his scalp. He relaxes back into Atsumu’s arms and feels the other boy exhale happily.

“Tell me a story,” Atsumu requests quietly. “Like when we were kids.”

Like when they were kids, skinny legs tangled under the sheets, turned with their noses nearly pressed together, eyes shining in the darkness. When Atsumu couldn’t sleep, and Sakusa couldn’t sleep until he knew Atsumu was asleep, and so he told him endless stories until he did.

“You’re so spoiled.” Sakusa closes his eyes and leans his head back on Atsumu’s shoulder. Atsumu presses a kiss to his cheek and Sakusa feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards. “Alright, fine.” He pauses to think a moment. “In the beginning, humans were created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces -”

“Oh!” Atsumu exclaims. “The one about the soulmates. This is my favorite one.”

“Yeah,” Sakusa says. “Mine, too.”

Because if there were ever two people in this world who were born with one body and one soul, only to be split in half because Zeus feared their power together, Sakusa is sure it was him and Atsumu.  
  
  


~*~

Sakusa often ends up waiting outside the tent while Atsumu and the others are inside, doing whatever it is that important men do behind closed doors during war. He knows he could go in, if he wanted to. Atsumu wouldn’t let anyone tell him he couldn’t, but Sakusa prefers it this way. Keeping as much distance as he can between himself and the greedy men who brought Atsumu to war to kill for them.

The meetings don’t usually take this long, but Atsumu told him they’re planning a big invasion for the next day. Something to finally break through the walls of Troy and turn the tide of the war. Atsumu is the crux of this plan, naturally.

His mind is wandering dangerously in his boredom, images of the Prince of Troy covered in Atsumu’s blood plaguing his mind. He doesn’t even notice the man approaching him until he’s close enough that Sakusa can smell the sour tinge of alcohol in his breath when he speaks.

“You don’ look like much ‘a fighter,” the man slurs. Sakusa fixes him with a sharp glare that Atsumu says makes him appear colder and more deadly than a dagger of ice.

“I’m not,” he says shortly.

“Oh?” The man’s eyes darken in excitement, trailing Sakusa’s body from top to bottom. “So you’re entertainment then?” He grabs Sakusa’s wrist in a punishing grip and tries to pull him in. Sakusa digs his heels into the dirt and pulls back.

Before he can do anything about it, there’s a flash of bronze in the corner of his eye and the flat end of a sword is slamming down on the man’s hand, his knuckles making a sickening cracking sound.

Sakusa doesn’t have to look to know that Atsumu’s lips are curled in a snarl, almost animalistic in nature, entire body tensed, poised to kill.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to touch things that don’t belong to you?” He growls, as the man cradles his broken hand to his chest, eyes wide with fear, stumbling backwards to get as far away from Atsumu as possible. 

There’s a hidden implication to Atsumu’s words.

That Sakusa belongs to him.

He doesn’t dispute it.

“I - I didn’t know, I -” the man stammers, ugly face breaking out into a sweat

Atsumu swings his sword in a broad, threatening arc and the man lets out a high-pitched squeak of fear.

“Consider yourself lucky I didn’t take the entire arm off. And don’t _ever_ let me see your face again.”

The man apologizes and quickly runs off, and Sakusa has a feeling that’s the last time he’ll see him again. Thankfully. Atsumu’s back is still to him, but Sakusa can see the rigid set of his shoulders, rising and falling with sharp, short breaths. Slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a wild animal, Sakusa lays his fingers on top of Atsumu’s arm.

Instantly, he feels his muscles relax under his fingertips, breathing getting slow and even as Atsumu turns back to him.

The exhaustion and frustration written in the tight lines of his face breaks his heart.

Sakusa doesn’t know how he’s the only one who sees it.

Miya Atsumu isn’t a weapon.

He’s just a boy.

Carefully, he takes Atsumu’s hand in his and leads him back to their shared tent. Atsumu collapses into the bed right away, though he curls up leaving a little space beside him where Sakusa knows his own body will fit perfectly.

Atsumu’s head rests on his shoulder, Sakusa’s hands carding through the golden threads of his hair, and they don’t speak for a long while.

“I hate him,” Atsumu croaks eventually.

Sakusa knows he isn’t referring to the man from before. He’s referring to the King’s brother. The commander of the Greek army. The selfish man who had called for this entire war, who also happens to have a bad habit of talking down to Atsumu. Of treating him like a petulant kid.

“I know,” Sakusa whispers into the top of his head.

“It’s not even my war.” The pout is evident in Atsumu’s voice. “I don’t care about Tsukishima Kei. The Trojans can keep him, he’s probably better off there than where he was before anyways.”

“I know.”

“I want to go home, Omi.” Atsumu’s voice cracks and Sakusa feels his heart break all over again. “I don’t want to be a hero anymore. I just want to be with you.”

A single tear slides down Sakusa’s cheek and disappears into Atsumu’s hair.

“I know.”

“I won’t fight tomorrow.” Atsumu tightens his arms around Sakusa, like if he refuses to let go, they can just stay there, laying tangled together forever. “And if I don’t go, neither will the Myrmidons. The invasion plan will fail.”

Sakusa squeezes his eyes shut, but a few more tears still slip through the cracks.

“I know.” His voice is barely a voice at all. Atsumu hums contentedly and, using Sakusa’s chest as a pillow, starts to drift off to sleep.

When Sakusa opens his eyes again, he only sees one thing.

Atsumu’s armor and helmet resting near the doorway, distinguishable even in the chaos of battle, from the unique colors and design. Only the best for the best of the Greeks.

The Myrmidons don’t need Atsumu to fight tomorrow. They only need to think he is.  
  
  


~*~

Battle is faster than Sakusa expected it to be.

Years and years of training with Atsumu haven’t nearly prepared him for the true rush and madness of the battlefield. He has no idea how Atsumu can enjoy this, the onslaught of sensations that make it hard to notice anything at all. The quick flashes of action, too fast for Sakusa’s eyes to even follow, the sounds of metal weapons clanging, people crying out in victory, in agony.

Atsumu’s helmet is too big on him, as well, and he has to constantly push it up and out of his eyes. He’s going to endlessly tease him about his big head when this is all over.

_When this is all over._

That’s all Sakusa wants. It’s the entire reason he’s going through with this quite frankly insane plan.

If this invasion succeeds, they’re that much closer to the war ending. To Sakusa finally being able to bring Atsumu home again. To being boys instead of soldiers again.

He couldn’t let Atsumu sabotage their first real chance at finishing this war.

“Atsumu!”

Sakusa hears the name cutting clean across the battlefield, a voice he recognizes. Aran Ojiro, one of Atsumu’s most trusted in battle. His second in command of the Myrmidons.

Sakusa’s head swivels around at the warning shout, pushing Atsumu’s helmet out of his field of vision.

He recognizes the Crown Prince of Troy a half second too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more to go :// would u believe me if i said that it's ultimately,,,a happy ending??
> 
> pls feel free to scream at me in the comments or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie) :)


	4. the survivors of war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Toruu,” Iwaizumi murmurs, sitting on the bed next to him and taking his hand in his, raising it to his lips to press a soft kiss to the back of it. “I’ll be back. You know that no matter what it takes, I’ll always come back to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the end of the ride :') i just wanna thank u all for reading, i know greek tragedies aren't very easy on the soul and i really appreciate everyone who's given it a chance
> 
> this chapter will hopefully make it up to u <3
> 
> [fic master thread](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie/status/1305658890005237760?s=20)   
>  [my twitter](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie)

**Iwaizumi & Oikawa - The Survivors of War**  
  
  
  
  
Any other man in Iwaizumi’s position would stay.

They would take one look at his husband’s naked body, lounging almost defiant in its elegance, soft at the edges in the morning sunlight, and crawl right back into bed with him.

“I thought we agreed you were too old for any more wars, Iwa.” Oikawa’s voice is airy and teasing, but Iwaizumi has loved him for far too long to miss the grief hidden behind his words. He hates himself for putting it there.

He hates all of Greece for going to war.

He hates Athena for ordering him to go, for promising him his name written eternally in the stars should he succeed in bringing Troy to its knees.

Iwaizumi doesn’t care much for the stars, but he cares infinitely for Oikawa Toruu, and if fighting in this war makes the world his husband is living in just a little bit safer, Iwaizumi will fight until his bones are so brittle they turn to dust.

“‘m not that old,” Iwaizumi grunts. He has to force himself to look away, because a second longer and he knows he would have given in, offered to do anything Oikawa wanted, even if it brought down the wrath of one of the most formidable Gods on his head.

“No, not yet I suppose,” Oikawa admits. Then, more quietly, “But I would rather like to see you old one day. And every time you go, the chances of that happening grow less and less.”

Iwaizumi chances another glance at his husband, and finds Oikawa pouting down at his lap, lower lip jutted out and eyes shining with tears that he valiantly keeps at bay.

That’s the thing about Oikawa: Iwaizumi has all the reputation of being strong and cunning and brave, but he’s sure he doesn’t even hold a candle to Oikawa in any of those regards. Oikawa has a mind sharp as a stone in a riverbed, whittled down to a point capable of piercing a man’s heart. He had a backbone strong as an iron pipe, and whenever Iwaizumi tells him he has to leave Oikawa alone again, Oikawa never lets a single tear fall. He knew what he signed up for when he married Iwaizumi the Cunning, sought after all over the world for his brilliant mind and tactical abilities. And he never begrudged him for that, not a single day of his life.

“Toruu,” Iwaizumi murmurs, sitting on the bed next to him and taking his hand in his, raising it to his lips to press a soft kiss to the back of it. “I’ll be back. You know that no matter what it takes, I’ll always come back to you.”

He doesn’t care if he has to kill the God of Death himself in order to do it - there isn’t a force in the Heavens or below that could keep Iwaizumi from Oikawa.

Oikawa purses his lips, eyebrows drawing together. “Can’t Athena find a new champion already? She’s just about overstayed her welcome in our lives.”

Iwaizumi chuckles and presses a finger to Oikawa’s soft and pretty mouth.

“Careful. She’ll take your tongue if she hears you saying such things.”

Oikawa _humphs_ and sticks out his tongue like a child, making Iwaizumi pull his finger away with an amused smile that falls when he sees the flash of sadness that strikes across his husband’s lovely face.

“She’s already taking everything else from me,” he whispers.

Still, not a tear falls.

Iwaizumi sighs and puts an arm around Oikawa’s slender shoulders, letting his rest his head in the crook of Iwaizumi’s neck. His husband’s auburn curls tickle the underside of his chin, but it’s a mere afterthought to the smell and the feel and the warmth of holding Oikawa close.

There isn’t much left to say after that. They both know Iwaizumi doesn’t exactly have a choice in the matter here. He wasn’t born for war, but he was chosen for it.

“Daddy!” A wailing voice accompanied by the sound of small feet getting closer and closer abruptly break the peaceful atmosphere. Iwaizumi huffs but can’t help a small grin, standing and grabbing Oikawa’s robe for him, which he manages to slip on just before the door to their bedroom goes flying open.

Iwaizumi and Oikawa have two sons. Yahaba Shigeru and Kyoutani Kentarou were both orphans of war, living in a tiny, run-down orphanage a few miles down the road. They used to pass by the two boys all the time, covered in dust, but with bright eyes, playing in the streets with some of the other kids. The other kids were too nervous to approach them, but Oikawa always happily sent Yahaba and Kyoutani running back with loaves of bread and apples.

Watching Oikawa Toruu fall in love from the outside was an incredible thing to behold, and Iwaizumi finally suggested adopting them a few years ago.

“What is it, dear?” Oikawa asks, in a voice sweet enough to make flowers bloom. Yahaba launches his tiny body onto the bed, right into Oikawa’s lap. “Oh no,” Oikawa hums, reaching up to wipe some of the mud that was splattered across Yahaba’s cheek and in his fair brown hair. “What’s happened here, hm?”

“Kyoutani did it!” Yahaba scowls with all of the bitterness of a man truly scorned. Iwaizumi has to hide a laugh behind his hand when Oikawa gasps dramatically, scooping Yahaba into his arms and rising to his feet.

“Of course he did, that rascal! Shall we go give him a piece of our minds, then?”

“Yeah!”

Iwaizumi watches with a love and a fondness in his chest that he didn’t even know he was capable of feeling when he was a younger man. The greatest things in his life were all because of Oikawa. Because Oikawa took his hand and introduced him to love and family and belonging. To comfort, and safety. To a home.

Perhaps it would be worth earning himself Athena’s ire, if it meant he could stay here for just one more day, in the home that he and Oikawa built together. To wake up and make slow, unhurried love, to sit down and eat breakfast together, to go shopping in the market with Yahaba and Kyoutani’s little hands held in their own, to tend to the garden and the cattle while Oikawa prepared a meal, then to make love once more before bed.

Iwaizumi was a fool to leave. He was always a fool to leave.

Oikawa returns not long after, this time with Kyoutani balanced on his hip, head resting on his shoulder and tiny fingers wrapped around the pearls of Oikawa’s long necklaces. He peeks out at Iwaizumi with those same deep-set, intense eyes that Iwaizumi thought should never belong on a boy of his age. They came with life, he supposes. Much like Oikawa’s came with his. Wide and unassuming on the surface, hiding a cleverness and wit that no man ever saw coming underneath.

Iwaizumi snorts a laugh and Oikawa shoots him a look.

_Soft,_ Iwaizumi mouths to him, eyeing Kyoutani in his arms.

Oikawa rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips as he switches Kyoutani to his other hip.

“I’m a weak man, what can I say?”

No, Iwaizumi thinks. Oikawa is the least weak man he’s ever known - and he’s known some of the strongest men to ever live.

“Good thing you gave him a piece of your mind. Looks like you really told him.”

Oikawa laughs, and Iwaizumi’s heart soars. They’ve been married for so long now that Iwaizumi forgets what life without Oikawa is like, and still, with a simple laugh he can reduce Iwaizumi to pieces.

“He’s simply too cute,” Oikawa laments. “Just look at him, he’s like a little cherub.” As if to prove his point, Oikawa begins smacking loud kisses all over Kyoutani’s round cheeks, making the child squeal happily and squirm in his arms.

“I’m not cute!” Kyoutani declares.

“Oh?” Iwaizumi joins them, rubbing a hand over the fine short hairs on Kyoutani’s head. “What are you, then?”

Kyoutani’s eyes light up at Iwaizumi’s attention. Both of their sons had always favored Oikawa, which was fine by Iwaizumi because he favored Oikawa just as well, but Kyoutani always held a certain admiration for Iwaizumi that Yahaba didn’t. He asked Iwaizumi for stories of battle and heroes and victory, of the strength of men and the fall of monsters.

“I’m strong! I want to go to war like you, Father!”

Iwaizumi can visibly see it, the tiny hole the words puncture in Oikawa’s heart. Kyoutani is barely five, cradled safely in the comfort of Oikawa’s arms, but Iwaizumi sees the way his hold tightens around the small boy all the same. Like if he lets him go, he’ll just be another person Oikawa loves that leaves him. And Oikawa doesn’t cry, but his eyes are suddenly worlds away with grief, as if imagining Kyoutani being ripped straight from his arms and thrust into the jaws of war.

“No, Kyoutani,” Iwaizumi says gently, stepping closer so he can secure his arms around both of them, looking his son very seriously in the eye. “You have to stay here and take care of your dad for me. It’s a very important job, probably the most important job in the whole world. Do you understand? Can you do that for me?”

Kyoutani blinks at Iwaizumi a few times, then turns to look at Oikawa who offers him a smile that trembles only the tiniest bit at the corners. He nods, just once, returning his head to its place on Oikawa’s shoulder, squeezing his neck tight. Oikawa exhales in relief, resting his cheek on top of Kyoutani’s head and mouthing a _thank you_ to Iwaizumi.

Not that he has anything to thank him for.

If anything, Iwaizumi thinks Oikawa should hate him.

Though, as Iwaizumi sets off the next morning, long before anyone else in the house has woken, and presses a kiss to the top of Oikawa’s head sticking out from under the sheets, he thinks that he hates himself enough for the both of them.  
  
  


~*~

The greatest downfall of being the Champion of Athena is that such a title goes hand-in-hand with being the enemy of Poseidon.

Siding with one God always means siding against another. Even if you win the war - take Troy and bring victory to the Greek army - it doesn’t mean you’ve won the battle. In fact, after fighting the Trojan War for ten relentless years, Iwaizumi’s battle had only begun.

Athena had warned him that his journey sailing home would be perilous.

She never said it would be like this.

After ten long years fighting on Troy’s soil, all Iwaizumi wanted was to return home to his family. To collapse, older and more ragged than before, into Oikawa’s loving embrace, to listen to his husband gently tease him for all the new grey hair and wrinkles he had acquired, to hum him a sweet song under his breath and tell Iwaizumi, “It’s okay now, darling. You’re safe. It’s over.”

Instead what he got was memory-stealers and cyclops, cannibal giants and witches, all trying to kill (or _eat_ ) him and his men at every turn of their journey. He’s lost a lot more men than he’s managed to save, and sometimes he’s not sure how he himself is even still alive.

Needless to say, it has not been Iwaizumi’s greatest decade.

He misses Ithaca like a physical limb torn from his body. It’s this desperation that leads him to ignore the warnings of the goddess Circe.

To listen to the songs of the Sirens.

It’s told that the Sirens sing of knowledge of the future, and if they can give Iwaizumi even a hint about how to get home, he’ll be that much closer to seeing Oikawa again. To Iwaizumi, that’s worth anything in the world.

“Do you think this is tight enough?” Hanamaki asks Matsukawa, letting him test the give of the ropes. Iwaizumi chose his two most trusted men for the task of tying him to the mast of the ship to make sure he didn’t give in to the Sirens lure and let them drag him to a watery grave

Matsukawa tugs at the ropes firmly securing Iwaizumi to the mast, then gives his biceps a weary glance.

“Better make them a little tighter. Just in case.”

Not long after, they can see the island of the Sirens approaching. Hear the distant echoes of their lilting voices carry across the waves. With their ears plugged up with beeswax, the rest of his crew can’t hear the haunting melody, but Iwaizumi watches as Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s eyes go wide with fear and horror, staring at the shore of the island.

Morbidly curious, Iwaizumi follows their gaze.

And then, he sees him.

“Toruu.” The blessed name falls from Iwaizumi’s lips in a ragged gasp. How many days, months, years has it been since he’s been able to speak such a lovely name? To taste the sweetness of his love on his tongue, as delectable as Oikawa himself.

Iwaizumi aches and aches and _aches._

He knows, deep down he knows that it’s not real, but Gods if the man standing on the shore doesn’t look exactly like his husband. Naked as he was the day Iwaizumi told him he was leaving while he lay in bed, all elegant lines and tantalizing curves, creamy skin shining with the dew of the sea’s salty mist kissing every bare inch of him.

“Hajime.” The vision of Oikawa calls to him in dulcet tones of amour. It makes Iwaizumi’s heart feel whole and shattered completely all within one beat. Oikawa’s lips curl into a smile and he holds his hands out towards Iwaizumi, arms spread wide and inviting, beckoning him closer. “Hajime, darling, we’ve been apart far too long. Please,” his eyes shine with unshed tears. “Come back to me, love. I can’t stand another moment without you.”

The grief washes over Iwaizumi like a tsunami wave. Every inch of him, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, yearns for Oikawa so strongly, his mind doesn’t even comprehend the fact that this isn’t really his husband speaking to him.

He wants this to be Oikawa so badly, he truly starts to believe it is.

He’s screaming now, shouting and thrashing against his binds, fighting to get closer to Oikawa. Iwaizumi doesn’t even recognize the sounds tearing out of his own throat, like they’re being pulled from deep within him, a deep buried sorrow finally manifesting itself in cries that will echo in his mind and haunt his dreams for years to come.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa scramble to hold him down and Iwaizumi can feel the warm blood dripping down his back, his arms, his legs, as he pulls hard enough at his restraints to leave gashes all over his body.

But he doesn’t care.

Nothing matters.

Nothing but getting back to Oikawa.

“It’s not real!” Hanamaki shouts to be heard over Iwaizumi. “Whatever it is you’re seeing, isn’t really there! We can see the beasts as they truly are without their voices to blind us! They’re monsters, Iwaizumi!”

“Iwa,” Oikawa sings softly, and all of Hanamaki’s words disappear into the air before they can even reach Iwaizumi’s ears. It’s too strong - the pull, the desire, the need to get closer. “Just a little closer, darling. You’re nearly there, and then you won’t have to fight ever again.”

And Gods, Iwaizumi is tired. He’s so, so tired.

If he can just break out of these ropes, he’ll be free. The battle will finally be over.

“Iwaizumi!” Matsukawa grabs him by the face and puts himself between Iwaizumi and the image of his husband. He can still hear Oikawa’s voice calling to him, but looking into his comrade’s eyes, he feels a bit more clear-headed. “He’s not here! He was never really here!”

“No,” Iwaizumi gasps, trying to free his arms once more and feeling the rope dig itself deeper into his flesh. “No, Toruu, I’m so sorry. No, no, _no!”_ He snarls and slams his head forward into Matsukawa’s mouth, glimpsing only a flash of red dripping down his face as he stumbles back in shock and pain, giving Iwaizumi the perfect view of Oikawa once again.

“Let me out!” He demands, growing frantic as Oikawa’s form starts getting further and further away. “Untie me, now! I need to - I need to go home!”

His words fall on deaf ears - quite literally.

Matsukawa, with his hand held to his bleeding nose, glances over his shoulder as they pass the island, then back to Iwaizumi with almost unbearable sympathy.

“Just hold on a little longer. We’ll get you back to him, I promise.”  
  
  


~*~

The Sirens and Matsukawa end up being right.

They were close to getting home.

Of course, ‘a little longer’ was actually ‘a few years longer’, but in the grand scheme of things, Iwaizumi just counted himself lucky that he made it home at all.

The steep hill leading up to the house Iwaizumi and Oikawa built for their family together leaves Iwaizumi more winded than he remembers it, and it’s just another jarring reminder of how long it’s truly been since he’s been here.

There’s another difference, as well.

Iwaizumi has never seen the man standing in his yard before.

Not quite as tall as Iwaizumi, but thick with corded muscle, appearance made all the more intimidating by the jagged lines shaved into the sides of his short hair. Iwaizumi sizes him up silently before making his appearance known. He can’t imagine Oikawa ever giving up their home voluntarily, which means this man either took it by force, or he’s Oikawa’s - no. He can’t even let his train of thought go there, or he’ll kill the man without even hearing him out.

As he gets closer, he sees that the man is actually much younger than he originally thought. Iwaizumi would certainly have the advantage of experience over him, but he may be out-classed in stamina. The young man also has a pack of four big dogs excitedly running circles around his feet, licking at his ankles and barking for his attention. Iwaizumi has no doubt they’d immediately descend on anyone fool enough to attack their master, and he does so like to avoid injuring innocent animals.

It’s only when the young man turns to look over his shoulder to gently chide one of the dogs scratching at his calves that Iwaizumi sees them.

Intense, deep-set eyes.

He gasps, and those same eyes snap up to meet his. They narrow suspiciously, his arms crossing over his wide chest.

“Something I can help you with, sir?” He eyes Iwaizumi up and down, squaring his shoulders. A few of the dogs growl lowly under their breath, though Iwaizumi can’t imagine he looks too threatening after a decade at war, and yet another decade fighting for his life at sea. He must look as old and tired as he feels, dressed in tatters and grey at the temples.

“Kyoutani,” Iwaizumi says, voice breaking on the name. Kyoutani’s eyes go slightly wide with surprise and Iwaizumi feels tears gather at the corners of his eyes. “You’ve gotten so big, son.”

“It - It can’t be.” Kyoutani blinks rapidly, arms falling limp to his sides. “Father?” He whispers the word as if he might accidentally shatter the image of Iwaizumi before him completely.

A small smile cracks at the corner of Iwaizumi’s lips.

“I imagine I’m in a lot of trouble with your dad, aren’t I?”

Kyoutani barks a laugh, sounding not entirely unlike the pack of animals surrounding him, and the door to the house swings open. In the entrance stands a young man taller than Kyoutani, but more slender in stature, with soft brown hair that brushes his shoulders.

“Hey Dog Breath, it’s time for dinner,” he announces, bored expression growing interested when his gaze follows Kyoutani’s and lands on Iwaizumi. “Picking up more strays, are you brother?” He asks in a fondly exasperated tone. Suddenly, his eyes narrow dangerously. Iwaizumi feels a chill race down his spine, and realizes that it’s the exact glare Oikawa uses to cut down men three times his size. “Or is he another suitor?”

“No, he’s - It’s -” Kyoutani, still wide-eyed and staring at Iwaizumi can hardly find the words.

“It’s what?” Yahaba snaps, crossing his arms the same way Kyoutani had and trying to fill the doorway.

“It’s _Father.”_

Yahaba’s expression goes just as slack as Kyoutani’s had, though his arms remain crossed. Still just the slightest bit guarded.

“You…” Iwaizumi starts, throat clogging with emotion at seeing his boys again, practically men now. “You’re so much like him.”

At that, Yahaba’s defenses crack the slightest bit more.

“My boys.” Iwaizumi is practically breathless with happiness and relief at this point. “I’m so sorry.”

And just like that, they’re both running into his arms, nearly knocking him to the ground with the force it. They aren't the same little boys he left behind, but they fit into his arms all the same.

“What’s all this about, then?”

That voice. Iwaizumi realizes what a fool he had been now, because not even the most beautiful of Siren songs could ever have compared to that voice.

If it hadn’t been for Kyoutani and Yahaba’s arms around him, he’s sure he would have sunk to the ground completely.

Gently easing himself out of their hold, he looks up to a sight he’s dreamt for many years now: Oikawa, standing on the porch of the house they built together, evening sunlight dancing off the silky strands of his hair, welcoming Iwaizumi home.

Though, in reality, Oikawa does look somewhat less than welcoming.

“It’s Father,” Yahaba sniffles through his smile. “It’s really him.”

Slowly, for Oikawa still hasn’t stopped glaring warily at him, Iwaizumi makes his way closer.

“You’re far from the first man to claim to be my long departed husband,” Oikawa says. Iwaizumi falters, Yahaba’s words finally registering in his mind.

_Or is he another suitor?_

Of course Oikawa has had suitors while he was gone. He was easily the most beautiful person, man or woman, in all of Ithaca.

“How far?” Iwaizumi asks.

Oikawa purses his lips and thinks a moment. “Out of the one hundred and eight of them? I’d say at least forty have tried that one already.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw drops.

“One hundred and forty eight suitors? You’ve had _one hundred and forty eight_ suitors?”

Oikawa shrugs. “Somewhere around there.”

“How have you not married yet?”

“Oh, they tried to make me.” Oikawa’s eyes grow steely, a cruel and lovely smile tugging at his clever lips. “But I told them I simply couldn’t marry again until I finished weaving a burial shroud for my husband’s father. And then, each day, I would unravel it just the tiniest bit so that the damned thing would never be finished.”

Iwaizumi stops, eyebrows furrowing together in confusion.

“But you’re a wretched weaver?”

He winces at his own blunt words. Perhaps insulting him was not the best strategy for winning Oikawa back. His one hundred and eight other suitors were probably much better at this than he was. Honestly, he’s never known what he did to earn Oikawa’s favor in the first place.

Oikawa’s eyes widen in surprise at his words, head tipping to the side and regarding Iwaizumi carefully, inch by inch from his sandals to his silver temples, finally landing on his eyes. Oikawa’s gaze is strong and warm, fierce and beautiful.

And that - That’s what really makes Iwaizumi feel like he’s home.

“Iwa?” Oikawa finally says in a small, trembling voice. It feels like a hit straight to Iwaizumi’s chest.

He stumbles the last few steps forward, but it doesn’t matter, because Oikawa is stumbling towards him too, now, and they crash together in the middle. It feels like a collision of stars, like a whole new constellation forms around them. Oikawa is shaking almost violently in his arms and Iwaizumi doesn’t think he could be holding on any tighter if he tried. It must be painful, he thinks distantly, but neither one of them minds.

“You’re late for dinner,” Oikawa manages through hiccuping sobs and it’s so ridiculous and perfect and _him._

“I’m sorry,” Iwaizumi laughs, and then more quietly into the top of Oikawa’s head. “I’m so, so sorry, Toruu.”

“It’s okay,” Oikawa whispers back. “You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”  
  
  


~*~

Iwaizumi is certain that there isn’t a force in the world that could move him from this bed right now. Maybe he’ll never leave it again. It wouldn’t be such a bad life, laying around all day and making love to Oikawa, letting him curl up on Iwaizumi’s sweat-tacky skin while they catch their breath, and then doing it all over again.

The Gods themselves would be jealous of such a life.

“Will you tell me what happened to them?” Oikawa asks sleepily, fingers tracing idle patterns across Iwaizumi’s collarbone, making his toes curl. “The lovers, I mean.”

“Who?” Iwaizumi asks. Oikawa huffs.

“The lovers! Kuroo Tetsurou and Tsukishima Kei, of course! I’ve been dying to know what became of them.”

It’s been so many years, the names sound like ghosts to Iwaizumi. It takes him a few moments to even remember who they were in the first place. The impulsive Prince of Troy. The beautiful face that sent entire nations to war.

Iwaizumi remembers the last time he saw them vividly, now that he’s placed their names to their faces. It was the fall of Troy, which Iwaizumi himself orchestrated. The entire city was burning, and the Greeks were the ones holding the all flames.

And still. Still he remembers the two of them, white-faced and clinging to each other’s hands like they had chains binding them together, standing over the body of the King of Sparta. Kuroo had blood on his hands. So did Tsukishima.

When they looked up and saw him, they ran. Iwaizumi knew Troy had secret tunnels under the city, and that if he let them go now, it’s the last he would see of them.

He did not give chase.

“They killed the King of Sparta. They got away.”

Oikawa sighs happily. “That’s good. I love a happy ending.” He tilts his chin up, murmuring his next words into Iwaizumi’s neck. “And what of the others?”

Iwaizumi remembers them all, too, though he tries not to as much. Remembers each and every one of them - Lovers and brothers, friends and comrades, old and young, man and slightly more than man.

“Legends in the stars.”

“Oh,” Oikawa breathes, holding Iwaizumi a little tighter. “I’m glad that you’re not a star yet, darling.”

Iwaizumi kisses the top of his head and looks out the window into the night sky, names and faces painted across the darkness in bright bursts of light. Iwaizumi can’t say why he isn’t among them now, why he was chosen to remain here a little longer, but as Oikawa’s breathing slows and their heartbeats fall into perfect sync, he sends up a silent prayer of thanks.

The stars wink back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh we made it to the bitter end :') not totally sad, right?? i rly hope this story leaves u with a little bit of happiness in ur hearts <3
> 
> thank u for reading, pls let me know what u thought in the comments on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie)

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhh looks like it's time to go to war :') wonder who's gonna pop up next 👀
> 
> ill be posting one chapter of this story per day, so be sure to check back in soon!
> 
> let me know what u thought so far in the comments and come be my friend on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/oiiblondie)


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